Those who know me know that I like The Godfather. I read the book in 1978, a watershed year for me in many ways. Among the many passages that touched me is an exchange between Michael and Tom Hagen after Michael has had his jaw broken.
"You shouldn't let that broken jaw influence you.....It was business, not personal."
"Tom, don't let anybody kid you. It's all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it's personal as hell."
It is for me as well. This is a little story of why, and my values.
I got called a lot of things at home and in school. I was too young to reply at home, and too cowed to do so at school. Home epithets included you little bastard and other endearments not commonly used with children under 10. At a boys' school the primary insult for anyone different or awkward was faggot. You're a faggot! Faggot faggot faggot...and put on repeat.
My voice changed right near my 13th birthday, and I passed from being an alto to being a bass in less than a year. And with it came the inevitable jokes. One classmate would always greet me "Hi TED (an octave lower)! How ya doin', TED?" People would drop their jaws against their chests and growl things out, most commonly with laughter or stupid, obvious comments.
Finally, my name was a source of constant hilarity. One teacher always called me Theadacious and laughed about it, as if his mispronunciation was somehow unique or clever. Theodorius, Theadacious, and various extremely entertaining and bizarre misspellings and mispronunciations of my last name were a feature of life.
And I resented it. As if names like DeBenneville or Lippard were nice, everyday names. Finding employment and fame singing was one long 'fuck you' to everyone who ever laughed at my voice. And faggot? I was hair-trigger touchy about it, sick to death not only of the undeserved insults but also of the lack of female attention this hetero teen attracted. I was ferociously aggressive in college with those who made fun of my voice or name. My wife may still recall my icy withdrawal when she misspelled my name early in our dating life. It took me years to get over the sensitivity of being called a faggot.
And I did get over it. I even do a fine imitation of a New York gay clone, and I'm at least understanding of the good faith that lies behind the many manglings of my name. But I am utterly intolerant of being yelled at or called names. I listened to a lifetime's worth before I was 18, and my reaction is much like Magneto's in X-Men 3, when asked where his mutant tattoo is. He shows his Auschwitz number and says "no needle will ever touch my flesh again." That's right. Don't yell at me. Don't call me names. My soul lives in an honor-driven construct, where if I had my way those who were casually insulting would get slapped across the face or shot.
I grew up in what might charitably be called an operatic marriage. This is a polite euphemism for two people who say they love each other but fight at top volume while using language and epithets suitable for a drunken dockside brawl. My mother made a recording of one such fight at the dinner table. My sister found it, and I was eager to hear my father's voice, which I had not heard for 35 years. I was almost sick with fear and revulsion as I listened to her screech and him rumble out with fierce articulation "you stu-pid, stu-pid psychiatrist!" Dinner conversation.
I had a lover once tell me "I imagine how me speaking this to you is going to go over very badly. And I cannot do it differently. I cannot weave words of love and devotion into what I need to say." In my world, if you love someone you find a way to tell them difficult things without ugly or hard words. I have had a friend tell me I need to be handled with kid gloves sometimes. That's right. I do. As I see it everyone's soul needs to be handled with kid gloves. What the hell kind of lover yells at a person, or calls them names? A friend finds ways to walk through difficult topics without hurting their friend. That is the duty we owe everyone, let alone our lovers and our friends. In my experiences those who claim they are brutally honest are simply rude or insensitive. Honesty does not require harshness; in fact, as Heinlein noted, it is never more necessary to be polite than when you are right.
For many years, I have felt like I failed in my life choices. I abandoned being a cardiothoracic surgeon. I walked away from fellowship. I have left a couple of positions over what I see as unethical or grossly inappropriate behavior. I've always felt like I was screwing up, that if I had done better, or been braver, or something, then I wold have stayed my course.
Here in New Hampshire I'm experiencing a kind of approval and acceptance I haven't had in years. Office staff smile when I come in. The OR staff compete to work with me in my room. The ER loves me. And I love them. And in these experiences I realized what my life choices have been about.
They have been about honoring my values. I have construed my choices in terms of mistakes and abandonment of goals but all of them were based in my complete unwillingness to be called names or mistreated. And I don't argue about it; if I have to ask you to treat me well then it's not part of who you are, and I want nothing more to do with you. The surgeons were all brutal, insulting, competitive, preening, nasty, arrogant jerks. My fellowship director was an asshole, insulting people regularly, screaming at them, going through 4 secretaries per year. And Erlanger needs no elaboration. Working for corporations isn't really for me. They are not polite but rather indifferent. You die every bit as much from starvation as you do from hemorrhage.
Finally, a word about my wife. My mother never approved of her. I was supposed to marry another 'educated professional', a doctor, a lawyer, a something. I suppose I was supposed to have a marriage like what I grew up in. You have to be kidding! I wanted everything I never had- a loving, kind partner, a beautiful woman whom whom I would look forward to taking to bed every night, an orderly home, children raised without violence. I didn't need or want someone with whom to speak French, or talk about Civil War history. I wanted someone KIND, who didn't yell at me, or scream, or call me names.
And I found exactly who I was looking for in my wife. Any trouble that has ever been in our household was brought there by me, not her. I'm happier at work than I've been in years. Yes, I need to be handled with kid gloves. Yes, I resent being called names. No, I will not tolerate being yelled at. Because every piece of shit a man eats every day of his life is personal. And whatever I have or have not made of my life, I have made it as free of shit-eating as I possibly could, and I'm happy and proud about that.
Ted
"You shouldn't let that broken jaw influence you.....It was business, not personal."
"Tom, don't let anybody kid you. It's all personal, every bit of business. Every piece of shit every man has to eat every day of his life is personal. They call it business. OK. But it's personal as hell."
It is for me as well. This is a little story of why, and my values.
I got called a lot of things at home and in school. I was too young to reply at home, and too cowed to do so at school. Home epithets included you little bastard and other endearments not commonly used with children under 10. At a boys' school the primary insult for anyone different or awkward was faggot. You're a faggot! Faggot faggot faggot...and put on repeat.
My voice changed right near my 13th birthday, and I passed from being an alto to being a bass in less than a year. And with it came the inevitable jokes. One classmate would always greet me "Hi TED (an octave lower)! How ya doin', TED?" People would drop their jaws against their chests and growl things out, most commonly with laughter or stupid, obvious comments.
Finally, my name was a source of constant hilarity. One teacher always called me Theadacious and laughed about it, as if his mispronunciation was somehow unique or clever. Theodorius, Theadacious, and various extremely entertaining and bizarre misspellings and mispronunciations of my last name were a feature of life.
And I resented it. As if names like DeBenneville or Lippard were nice, everyday names. Finding employment and fame singing was one long 'fuck you' to everyone who ever laughed at my voice. And faggot? I was hair-trigger touchy about it, sick to death not only of the undeserved insults but also of the lack of female attention this hetero teen attracted. I was ferociously aggressive in college with those who made fun of my voice or name. My wife may still recall my icy withdrawal when she misspelled my name early in our dating life. It took me years to get over the sensitivity of being called a faggot.
And I did get over it. I even do a fine imitation of a New York gay clone, and I'm at least understanding of the good faith that lies behind the many manglings of my name. But I am utterly intolerant of being yelled at or called names. I listened to a lifetime's worth before I was 18, and my reaction is much like Magneto's in X-Men 3, when asked where his mutant tattoo is. He shows his Auschwitz number and says "no needle will ever touch my flesh again." That's right. Don't yell at me. Don't call me names. My soul lives in an honor-driven construct, where if I had my way those who were casually insulting would get slapped across the face or shot.
I grew up in what might charitably be called an operatic marriage. This is a polite euphemism for two people who say they love each other but fight at top volume while using language and epithets suitable for a drunken dockside brawl. My mother made a recording of one such fight at the dinner table. My sister found it, and I was eager to hear my father's voice, which I had not heard for 35 years. I was almost sick with fear and revulsion as I listened to her screech and him rumble out with fierce articulation "you stu-pid, stu-pid psychiatrist!" Dinner conversation.
I had a lover once tell me "I imagine how me speaking this to you is going to go over very badly. And I cannot do it differently. I cannot weave words of love and devotion into what I need to say." In my world, if you love someone you find a way to tell them difficult things without ugly or hard words. I have had a friend tell me I need to be handled with kid gloves sometimes. That's right. I do. As I see it everyone's soul needs to be handled with kid gloves. What the hell kind of lover yells at a person, or calls them names? A friend finds ways to walk through difficult topics without hurting their friend. That is the duty we owe everyone, let alone our lovers and our friends. In my experiences those who claim they are brutally honest are simply rude or insensitive. Honesty does not require harshness; in fact, as Heinlein noted, it is never more necessary to be polite than when you are right.
For many years, I have felt like I failed in my life choices. I abandoned being a cardiothoracic surgeon. I walked away from fellowship. I have left a couple of positions over what I see as unethical or grossly inappropriate behavior. I've always felt like I was screwing up, that if I had done better, or been braver, or something, then I wold have stayed my course.
Here in New Hampshire I'm experiencing a kind of approval and acceptance I haven't had in years. Office staff smile when I come in. The OR staff compete to work with me in my room. The ER loves me. And I love them. And in these experiences I realized what my life choices have been about.
They have been about honoring my values. I have construed my choices in terms of mistakes and abandonment of goals but all of them were based in my complete unwillingness to be called names or mistreated. And I don't argue about it; if I have to ask you to treat me well then it's not part of who you are, and I want nothing more to do with you. The surgeons were all brutal, insulting, competitive, preening, nasty, arrogant jerks. My fellowship director was an asshole, insulting people regularly, screaming at them, going through 4 secretaries per year. And Erlanger needs no elaboration. Working for corporations isn't really for me. They are not polite but rather indifferent. You die every bit as much from starvation as you do from hemorrhage.
Finally, a word about my wife. My mother never approved of her. I was supposed to marry another 'educated professional', a doctor, a lawyer, a something. I suppose I was supposed to have a marriage like what I grew up in. You have to be kidding! I wanted everything I never had- a loving, kind partner, a beautiful woman whom whom I would look forward to taking to bed every night, an orderly home, children raised without violence. I didn't need or want someone with whom to speak French, or talk about Civil War history. I wanted someone KIND, who didn't yell at me, or scream, or call me names.
And I found exactly who I was looking for in my wife. Any trouble that has ever been in our household was brought there by me, not her. I'm happier at work than I've been in years. Yes, I need to be handled with kid gloves. Yes, I resent being called names. No, I will not tolerate being yelled at. Because every piece of shit a man eats every day of his life is personal. And whatever I have or have not made of my life, I have made it as free of shit-eating as I possibly could, and I'm happy and proud about that.
Ted
This is fantastic! I had a conversation with some friends recently about how to cope when you’re angry with a friend or boyfriend/girlfriend. I mentioned that I’ve never said “Fuck you” to anyone out of anger. Maybe in a joking way, like, “You don’t like ‘Friends??’ Well fuck you too then!” And they were honestly surprised. I can’t EVER imagine saying that to someone. It’s really confusing to me that it’s somehow normal to yell at someone when you’re angry or to say mean things. I learned very young that that is NOT the way to go about things. I imagine that your teaching us that was due to what you experienced when you were younger, so I hope you take some solace in the fact that those terrible experiences resulted in your daughter always trying to speak about anger in a way that is expressive but not hurtful. Love you pops!
ReplyDeleteWell said! But remember to "Leave the Gun and take the Cannoli"
ReplyDelete